


A Brother's Love

by charismawizard



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Blood, Funerals, Grief, Mentions of Suicide, Originally an AU found on tumblr but all writing is my own, Other, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charismawizard/pseuds/charismawizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The baggage we carry from our crimes against one another is heavier any you will ever carry. Stanford Pines was no exception to this as he watched his twin's body being lowered into the ground-- it was all his fault and Stanley's death was on his shoulders. And there was only one way to atone for this...</p>
<p>But what is the cost of playing with human life? [A tumblr AU originally by arodudejude and everything beyond this point written by me]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chrysanthemum

It was a disgusting day for a funeral and that was to say that made it a perfect day for a funeral. The scent that hung in the air was reminiscent of a wet cigar and due to the heavy rain, blackened mud pooled in depressions of the grass.

Though perhaps, Ford’s term for funeral was a bit generous as only he and a man his brother would never meet stood in front of his coffin and watched as mud was slung from the pit which had been forged for his brother’s final resting place. And all he could think was how sorry this scene must look to any passerby.

Suddenly, Ford’s thoughts were interrupted by an unceremonious splat as a grave marker, lacking the markings identifying the human who laid below this point, was sunk into the ground, signaling that the gravediggers had done their jobs. Fiddleford bowed his head and folded his hands as he murmured incoherent sentences under his breath. 

“What are you doing?” Ford whispered, despite the fact there was no one else to hear them speak.

Fiddleford paused, not even stopping long enough to open his eyes and face his companion, “I’m praying, Stanford.”

“Oh-” He replied softly, his words faltering to give him anything to say in return. So instead he bowed his head as well, because while he may have never been a praying man, perhaps today was the time to start.

Then, as without skipping a beat, Fiddleford continued to send his praise to the corpse of Stanley Pines as it disappeared below ground, “.... Please accept this man into your loving arms because he is yours now father, amen.”

The two raised their heads, the rain pounding in their ears as they turned away from the gravesite, which Ford was fortunate for as he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle. Yet he still couldn’t help but take a final glance over his shoulder but was only left with an aching sensation of nausea which sat like a boulder in his gut.  _ “I’m sorry, Stanley…” _

 

When they received the call, it had been late into the night, when the house was silent and all that could be heard were the cicadas singing outside the windows and the hum of the refrigerator. Though, this tranquility was soon broken as Ford studied late into the night, hours after even Fiddleford had gone to sleep, and the landline could be heard blaring from the kitchen counter. 

Stanford grumbled, pushed back his chair, and crossed the cold wooden floors to reach the source of the ringing and retrieve the receiver from its usual place. He cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as one could when they haven’t used their voice in a span of hours. 

“Stanford Pines speaking?”

“Oh good, we have the correct number,” a raspy feminine voice answered. “This is Officer Neal of Piedmont PD speaking. We found the number for your landline in the pocket of a man who was found dead in a local telephone booth. We need you to come to the station and identify the corpse.”

 

Ford nearly choked, grasping the counter for stability like all the blood had been drained from his body. Why would anyone, let alone a dead man, have his number? “Could you describe the man to me? Perhaps we could do this over the phone-”

“Sir, we’re not accusing you of murder. Please calm down,” Officer Neal replied in a deadpan tone. “We’re required to have you do this in person, Mr. Pines. It’s only protocol.”

“I understand, Officer,” Ford breathed softly. “I’m sorry for any inconveniences I may have caused you.”

“It’s fine. It’s not every day you’re called to identify a suicide victim.” There was an audible sigh over the phone, along with the crinkling of papers. “Safe travels, Mr. Pines.”

And with that, the line went dead, leaving Ford feeling deeply shaken and questions racing through his head as he wondered what could be waiting for him in Piedmont. He put the receiver back into its proper place before returning to his room and collecting a change of clothes, his car keys, and locking away his journals in the basement. Just to be safe if the situation turned awry.

The door creaked open behind him as a slurred accent quickly followed, “Stanford, what in tarnation are you doing rattling around like this at three in the morning? You’re going to wake up the entire town.”

“Oh- Fiddleford, I apologize for interrupting your sleep. I’ll try to be quieter.” 

“It’s fine- now what do you got the car keys for?” he murmured, the situation only becoming more difficult to comprehend in Fiddleford’s sleep-drugged mind. 

 

Ford paused, trying to think of a valid excuse that didn’t involve saying ‘corpse’ or ‘police’ but came up short. So instead he answered, “I’m needed in California. It won’t be long. I’ll be back by the afternoon.”

“California? Why on  _ Earth  _ would you be going to California?” Fiddleford exclaimed, his sluggishness having been forgotten. “Stanford Pines, I swear if you don’t tell me-”

“The state called-” Ford answered monotonously, trying not to crack from the pressure of his own lie. “They’re only asking me to validate my ownership of this property is all. It’s just to be expected.”

“At the border? Stanford, I’m confused- if something is wrong, you know you can tell me.”

The darker haired male shook his head. “I’m sorry Fiddleford, but this isn’t a situation I can allow you to become engaged with. If it becomes a matter that will effect our work or personal lives, I’ll let you know, but you don’t need to worry about this.”

“But Ford I-” Fiddleford sighed, shaking his head, “forget it, you’re not gonna tell me diddly squat, so I might as well just go back to sleep… Just, be careful please, Stanford?”

Stanford nodded, his expression firm as he scrambled back to his feet and brushed past Fiddleford to get to the door, only giving a passing glance as he left his concerned friend behind. 

 

Beyond the moment he left Gravity Falls, it felt as if he could remember nothing, like the world had begun moving so quickly it was in fast forward and the only memories that lingered in his mind were brief flashes of his own emotions colliding like a meteor against words. 

_ The white sheet was unceremoniously stripped back, and suddenly, Ford felt as if he had been body-slammed and all he could do was drown in oxygen. Because beyond the white sheet was his own brother, the one he had treated as coldly as his now lifeless complexion. His hand snaked across his own beating heart, gripping it as if he let go, whatever living connection they may have had would fade.  _

_ “Mr. Pines-” Officer Neal said, “please answer the question. Do you know this man?” _

_ “Y- yes.” Ford stuttered, clearing his throat. “His name is Stanley Pines. He’s my twin brother.” _

_ The air became thick as the sheets were shuffled and Officer Neal bowed her head to the young man. “Thank you for your cooperation- and I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” _

Ford wanted nothing more than to find a reason to be angry with his brother for even turning to suicide, but he couldn’t be. Why should he be when he wasn’t even the one who was there for him at his most dire of hours? To hold him, to tell him there were other ways-- that he was so sorry for forgetting everything they once were and that he truly did love him.

 

_“He must’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to try and find you, Mr. Pines…” Officer Neal had said as Ford filled out the papers explaining his relation to the deceased._ _“Especially if you’re- where did you say your current residence was located?”_

_ “Gravity Falls, Oregon.” He had answered.  _

_ “Damn- The poor bastard almost made it.” _

_ “Yeah, almost...” _

And now, because of him, his brother was gone and his last word to his own brother was a blank stare from the upstairs window before snapping the curtains shut. Because of him, Stanley Pines was dead and all he could do was wish for time he never had.

Suddenly, lighting cracked outside the living room window and an idea came to the young scientist. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to wish for lost time for much longer…

* * *

 

Ford wiped away the condensation manifesting about the rim of his glasses, his effort nonetheless pointless because the droplets of cold rain only continued to slide down the frames. As if they didn’t realize he was in the middle of important business as he leaned against his shovel for support. 

Six feet was a long way to dig, especially on a night like this-- or more likely due to the fact that he was doing it alone. Ford shook his head, ignoring this fact as it cropped up in the back of his mind as he continued the tedious mission only hear the splitting of thin wooden planks beneath his feet. He threw his glare towards the dirt, leaning over the body with a lantern in hand. Even in a passing glance, it was unmistakable what Stanford saw, the greying eyelid of his recently deceased brother.

Had his shovel gone any further, it would’ve damaged the skull and undoubtedly the brain. Then where would his plans be? Ford grunted, shaking that timeline as he tossed his shovel back, he’d gotten what he came for and that’s all that matters. Ford dug through his backpack, searching for a hammer of some type to remove the nails lining the perimeter of the coffin, however, the best he could find was a crowbar. 

 

Ford slid the cool metal between the soaked planks and his entire body scrunched in on itself. If the shovel was anything to go by, the man was more than prepared to feel a shower of splinters as he began to push all the weight his body held against the metal bar. An uneasy creak could be heard even behind the pounding rain.

But no matter how much he seemed to force himself against the bar, it didn’t seem to budge due to the instrument’s slippery grip. Fine. Be that way. He would just try something else.

Ford crawled out of the hole, uprooting the hedgestone from its place in the ground before examining it briefly-- they wouldn’t need this right? He decided it wouldn’t matter in the end anyway and continued on with his plans. 

Using the large stone cross as leverage, he shoved the monument towards the edge of the hole, aiming it precisely over the handle of the crowbar. He only had one shot at this. He counted down the seconds in his mind.

_ 3, 2, 1-- go _

 

And with that, he didn’t have a moment to hesitate, he shoved the teetering rock over the edge and watched it land directly onto the crowbar. Which shot up into the air from the unleashed kinetic energy along with a shower of splinters above his head. He honestly couldn’t believe that worked. 

Ford’s fingernails began to collect dirt as he pried the corpse from the beneath the ground and up onto the muddied Earth, he tutted as glancing towards the way home. A path so dark with mud that his most recent footprints had already filled with shallow pools of polluted water and his brother’s back was already soaked in black mud. Ford could already tell this was going to be a long trip.

And it was. By the time the body reached the basement, whatever trace of peace was written across Stanley’s face had been caked and disgraced by mud and grassy reminders of the cemetery. But all that could be washed away, that was nothing but a minor setback. All that mattered to him right now was that his plans were right on track with his schedule. 

* * *

 

Fiddleford nearly gagged, that stench-- it somehow managed to grow worse. 

Over the past week, there had been a lingering scent that had been wafting from the floorboards beneath the lab and at first, it was tolerable. For all he knew, it could a small price of Ford’s mourning process and he would rather sacrifice a bit of his own comfort over his partner’s closure. But now, it had grown to become so putrid that it practically had a corporeal form. 

The sickly sweetness mixed with the heavy scent of rotting eggs was disorienting and could almost throw a grown man back on his heels if he were to even take whaff of it. Fiddleford inhaled deeply (through his mouth of course)-- brother or no brother, enough was enough. He couldn’t let this carry on any longer. 

Fiddleford left his project on the table, holding his head high as he attempted to collect his thoughts. How was he even supposed to put this gently? It’s not exactly an easy task to tell someone that they were causing you trouble-- at least for Fiddleford it was. 

 

Reaching the basement door, the odor was now mephitic in its sheer awfulness. The Southerner coughed, dry-heaving as he inhaled the offending emanation. He couldn’t take this anymore, he no longer needed any excuse that he could make up, this was just downright unsanitary.

He burst through the door, the man’s fingers pinched across the bridge of his nose as he immediately began to declare, “Stanford Pines, this is where I draw the line! I understand this is a hard time for you but I will not tolerate-”

Finally, he spotted it, across the room with only the legs draped by a white sheet, lay a dead man. A dead man that he saw lowered into the ground not ten hours ago. Fiddleford felt fear strike his heart as he stood paralyzed. And all he could do stare. 

That is until he threw up on his own shoes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, this will be my first official multi-chapter story, so if you loved, liked, or want to stalk this story with white hot hatred filling in your heart then refer to the "Subscribe" button at the top of the page. Also, if you like this story enough or want to see a founding father spontaneously raise from the dead-- leave a kudos or perhaps even a comment.
> 
> Thank you to OutOfThisUniverse for beta-reading and assistance with editing, and if you're into Danny Phantom-- look into their account where they already have a one-shot which is also about the death of a main character except he isn't going to be revived. And also, you, for reading and supporting this story. 
> 
> So hey-- thanks.


	2. Wax Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is now we must ask ourselves-- could we ever live with our own decisions if we knew what pain they might cause? 
> 
> [Warning: The following chapter contains graphic depictions of surgical procedures, blood, and mentions of vomiting. Please read at your own risk.]

Ford watched with an expression of shame written across his face, eerily similar to that of a kicked puppy as Fiddleford paced furiously about the room. The former absolutely sure that if he continued pacing like this he was going to burn a hole in the carpet.

“I can’t believe-” Fiddleford began grumbling, his hands folded behind his back before pausing to gather his thoughts and starting again, “What in the name of all things holy- I just- I just can’t believe you, Stanford Pines! What on Earth possessed you to think _this_ was a good idea?!”

Fiddleford gestured dramatically towards the basement before continuing his anxious pacing, “I just can’t believe you, first the portal-- then you go and pull a stunt like this?!”

Ford ran his hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts-- the room now immersed in silence as he raised his hand to speak.

“No, forget it, I don’t want to hear it.” Fiddleford said crossly, folding his arms across his chest with his nose stuck high in the air.

“But-!”

 

“No!” Fiddleford exclaimed, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “This is unacceptable! I’ve put up with a lot from you but you cannot be messing with the dead! He’s gone, Stanford! And it’s terrible and horrible-- but we can’t change that!”

The six-fingered scientist rose from his seat, “But Fiddleford- we can! Over the past week I’ve discovered probable solutions to stimulate the muscles, Fiddleford, I could do it!  We can do it-”

“We’ve gone down this road before Stanford and we nearly let a homicidal demon and his pals bleed into this universe,” Fiddleford replied, “don’t you see, Ford? This sort of thing, it causes problems.”

“There’s always going to be- _complications,_ Fiddleford,” Ford replied, continuing on with his argument, “complications is practically the definition of science!”

“Complications?!” Ford spat. “You-- I-! We almost let a dangerous demon cross into our dimension and destroy this timeline!... And you want to call that a complication?”

A heavy silence settled upon the two and just as Ford thought Fiddleford was going to drop the subject-- the man then clenched his fists close to his hips and looked Stanford square in the eye, “We may be scientists, but scientists are not the same as God. What’s done is done. So tell me Stanford Pines-- do you still think that this is a good idea?”

 

Ford’s expression stiffened as he nodded firmly, “Yes, Fiddleford. I still believe this is a good idea.”

The pregnant pause that followed was exceptionally long and awkward as the two were caught in a prolonged staring contest. Finally, the latter shook his head, “Fine. But you will not make any changes, major decisions, or lay a finger on that corpse unless I’m here. And if things get out of hand, we’re done. Do I make myself clear?”

Stanford’s face lit up as he readily replied to Fiddleford’s conditions, “Yes! Yes! Of course! I promise this won’t be a mistake! Thank you, Fiddleford.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ford snapped a glove over his arm as Fiddleford didn’t even hesitate to dress for the occasion as a paper surgeon’s mask adorned his face along with thick, elbow length rubber gloves. If he had it his way, he’d be wearing a hazmat suit or even better-- burying the body and leaving it to rest. But clearly it was far too late to turn back now.

Stanford turned for confirmation, to which Fiddleford then reluctantly shook his head as the former yanked back the sheet only to reveal a yellowing corpse which was splotched with blue and black bruises. Fiddleford practically recoiled at the sight as his eyes filled with disgust and the beginning of welling eyes due to the fact the smell was still lingering despite the fact he had heavily Febreezed the sight earlier.

He shuddered, but shook his head as Ford began to get down to business, explaining his notes in thorough detail.

“You see, Fiddleford, I believe that with enough shockforce we might be able to stimulate the muscles enough to where the heart actually begins pumping blood again! However, we would need a fail safe in case if something were to go wrong…”

 

Fiddleford cradled his chin between his thumb and index finger as he considered his options before suggesting a solution, “Well, my father used to have a pacemaker, we could create a device like that except stronger that would stimulate the heart and regulate the pulse if there was any sign of irregularities.”

Ford’s face began to light up with excitement as he began scribbling vigorously, “Fiddleford! That’s brilliant! Do you think you’d be able to program such a thing?”

“Think?” Fiddleford smiled sheepishly before adding, “Well, I hate to brag, but I was reprogramming graphing calculators in second grade, heh-- this will be an easy job. I’ll just have to get some things from the lab.”

“Great!” The dark haired scientist exclaimed. “And I will begin testing-”

“Pardon?”

“Testing the ideal voltage once you return?”

Fiddleford looked back from the basement door. “That’s what I thought.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ford tapped his pen against the front of his journal as he observed each wire connected to his twin with a thoughtful expression before popping up from the other side of the observation table exclaiming- “Clear!”

The Southerner flicked the switch on the heavy-set generator to his right as Stanley’s body began to twitch and jolt at the sudden exposure to the shock as Ford then requested, “Fiddleford! Cut the power!”

He flicked the switch once again as the whirr of the large machine began to power down and all that could be heard was that incessant tapping and heavy breathing. Fiddleford stood up on his toes to barely see the top of Ford’s head, “Any new occurrences?”

Stanford sighed, disappointment obvious in his tone, “No-- wait a minute-- Fiddleford! Come quickly!”

Once he heard his name being called, he rushed to Stanford’s side, immediately crouching down next to him to see what all the hullabaloo was about only to see the greying fingers repeatedly shaping into a claw-like form before stopping a few moments later. Ford grinned like a child as he began noting in extreme detail what had just taken place as he spoke rapidly.

“If that was only ten milliamperes-- Fiddleford, imagine what we could do with ten times this amount of energy.”

“Ford, we must remember to tread lightly,” Fiddleford warned, “ten milliamperes could kill a living person, but a hundred? That would practically make ‘em burnt toast!”

 

“Yes, but we must remember Fiddleford, that our circumstances are a bit different because the subject is already clinically deceased and thus will need more energy to cause any sort of reaction.”

Fiddleford nodded as he began to do the math, “I see your point- however, we’re only using fifty milliamperes for the pacemaker then because otherwise it could cause heart palpitations or cardiac arrest.”

“Oh! Right! The pacemaker! When do you think you can have it complete, Fiddleford?”

“Well, if you give me about an hour, I’d just have to go in and adjust the milliamp cap and we’d be right as rain, why?”

“Because I’d like to have it in before any further decay of the organs.” Ford explained in a monotonous tone as Fiddleford nearly gagged.

“You got it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fiddleford reached his hand into the open chest cavity, already feeling a steady drip of blood running across his gloves as he gripped the pacemaker with a great firmness as he now feared dropping it into the gore waiting below.

He wasn’t quite sure how Stanford managed to even talk him into doing this, but nonetheless, here he was. Fiddleford inhaled sharply, setting the device aside as he chose two identical metal clips from the table to hold back the loose flaps of skin and revealing an even wider range of disturbed, purplish organs due to the decay.

Fiddleford nearly choked as he finally got a full view of his subject’s guts, which was only barely being blocked by the ribcage-- shaking his head as he held out a quivering hand to Ford. “Bonesaw, please?”

 

He nodded, complying to the man’s request as he then handed him a long bladed saw with nasty teeth lining the blade, the handle only barely saving him from the threatening object itself. Fiddleford hunkered over the chest, beginning to saw away at the ribs with a disgusting amount of ease and occasionally setting a rib to the side-- it wasn’t until four ribs in that he finally had enough space to fit his hand around the heart.

Fiddleford reached across for the pacemaker and the wires connected to it as he imagined where to begin with it, eventually deciding the best place for the actual machine would be just beneath the sternum. To which he would then proceed to connect the wires to the right atrium and theoretically, this was the best approach. However, as soon as he reached his arm in between in the hole he had made earlier, he felt the queasiness overcome him once again, but was quick to swallow it as best he could as he stuck the pacemaker on the belly of the sternum.

But when he pulled his hand back to unravel the wiring, the underside of his once blue glove was now a deep shade of crimson-- one almost closer to the shade of coal than red. A light green tint Fiddleford’s face as he shakily began to thread the wiring through the right atrium, only to hear a blood-curdling squashing sound as he placed his right hand around the heart for the support.

It took all of Fiddleford’s strength not to just drop everything right then as he promptly finished the job and immediately took his hands out of Stanley’s chest once he knew everything was secure-- he felt a pat on his back as Ford congratulated him but Fiddleford didn’t even have time to reply as he immediately sprinted towards the garbage can on the other side of the room, now curling in on himself with the metal cylinder tucked between his legs.

 

“You can do this part without me right?” Fiddleford asked hopefully as Ford nodded, then using the bone glue to bring the ribs back their original form then carefully took off the metal clips which had been holding back the skin in the first place and setting them aside to stitch down the center of the chest.

Steady now…” Ford murmured to himself as he corrected the direction of his needle, the skin now requiring some effort to bring together as loose flaps of it met in the center. “Don’t pierce any arteries…”

He rose the black, wiry stitching to his teeth before snipping it with his canines and beginning to tie it off in a neat bowline knot. Stanford turned his head a third of the way towards Fiddleford, who was now posted by the garbage can after having had to touch the squishy, decaying insides of Stanley’s corpse in order to properly implant the pacemaker into his chest since Ford didn’t know how. “Are you still doing alright, Fiddleford?”

“Oh yeah--” the squeamish scientist informed him, “fit as a fiddle… Heh… Get it? ‘Cause I’m Fiddleford?... Why did his heart have to make that squelching sound?”

“Well, I think we’re done for now!”

“We are?”

“Yes!” Ford cheered victoriously, however this was followed by deafening silence as both knew exactly what was to be done next as they both silently began to prepare themselves and Stanley’s mutilated body for the long night to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

Both men helicoptered over the corpse, now dressed in proper lab attire as according to Fiddleford’s wishes because he didn’t want anyone except Stanley being electrocuted tonight.

Stanford glanced from his brother’s chest as stuck the last wire against his chest before turning to Fiddleford with a twin thumbs up. “We’re all clear!”

Fiddleford sighed as he felt the lever beneath his hand, may God help them both… He squinched his eyes shut as the decision that had been made was finalized. There was no turning back now as machines began to whirr and the generator became far too warm to the touch.

He jumped, pulling his hand away as Ford also found himself away from the machinery. Fiddleford pushed his hair back-- feeling hot air being blown across his face with intense speed. And it certainly didn’t help the man’s anxiety to see Stanley’s corpse practically having an induced seizure.

 

“Stanford!” Fiddleford shouted over the deafening wail of the generator.

“Yes, Fiddleford?!”

“Remember when I said we’d only stop if things got out of hand?!”

Ford nodded, his hands covering his ears to numb the sound. “Yes?!”

“Things have gotten out of hand!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That concludes chapter two of A Brother's Love and guess who released it on time? Me. So to celebrate that leave a kudos or maybe even a comment about what you liked, what you hated, or that thing you saw in the park last week. That'd be cool of you. I'd like to thank OutOfMyUniverse for beta reading and editing, as well as an outside friend of mine for making terrible jokes about the gory stuff. Shocking, I know. And of course, you, for sticking around and enjoying what I make. 
> 
> So hey-- thanks.


	3. Lungs Filled with Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lying is a natural human function, and you if you say you're an exception... Then you're already lying to yourself. 
> 
> [Warning: A graphic depiction of suicide follows in this chapter]

_Stan stared blankly up at the ceiling of his car. The paint had begun to peel and mold over, not that he had the money to fix it, and it seemed as if there were more cracks than he had duct tape to fix._

_Most of the time, he would’ve proactively grumbled about it. However, tonight was different as his car seat was reclined to the maximum and he began to trace the cracks in the ceiling as if they were constellations while Springsteen played on the radio. He sighed, pursing his lips, “We had a good run, huh?”_

_No replied, as he was talking to no one in particular, except himself. “I hope that wherever you may be… You’re doin’ alright.”_

_He stared down the empty pill bottle at his side, “I’m gonna miss you. Even if you don’t miss me.”_

_Suddenly, an inner voice began to speak to him, “Well then, why don’t you call him? You found his phone number at the last truck stop.”_

_Stan rolled his eyes, “Pfft- whatever. Shut up, me… Not like I got much time left anyways.”_

_  
_ _He allowed himself to seeth in silence for a few moments, letting the bitter lull between songs set in as he felt a heaviness beneath his lids. He begun to dig around his pockets for any sort of sign but found himself clutching a shred of a napkin between his fingers. Ford’s phone number._

_Perhaps it was the haze or maybe the situation, but he followed the universe’s signs and began to get out of his car-- his whole body felt numb as he felt a cool breeze pass through his hair. He didn’t feel his senses stimulate, or any excitement at all towards the new sensations as he drowsily began to move towards the phone booth across the empty parking lot._

_But with each passing moment as he felt his body become more like lead and a bleariness began to blur his sense of direction, he felt a sense of urgency. Perhaps even a temporary sense of purpose as he felt his fingers reach around the cool metal handle and open the squeaking doors to the plastic phone booth._

_He outstretched his hand to the phone, his heart pounding in his ears as he heard the soft buzz of the receiver but he already found himself too exhausted to even coherently turn the dial. Stan slumped down against the side of the phone booth as his heart dropped. He should’ve known he would’ve never made it._

_And he began to drift away into a deep and permanent slumber he laughed and said, “Sorry to disappoint you again, Ford…”_

 

* * *

 

 

Stan groaned, turning his hand towards the white light with a groan. The world seemed to be blurred as he tried to catch his breath for a moment-- everything just felt as if it were going too fast.

“Oh my stars- it actually worked…” A small voice said, “He’s waking up!”

“Yes! Yes! I see!” A voice, a voice so familiar in its endearing yet childish tone. “Stanley! Are you alright?!”

He began to sit up on the back of his elbows, putting a hand to his forehead as he began to register his surroundings, “Ugh~ I feel like I’ve been pounded by a semi. Does anyone have an aspirin?”  

“Stanley! Do you know who am I?” Ford asked, now coming into his line of vision.

His brow furrowed as he looked on the man with confusion, “Of course I know who you are, doofus. You’re my brother, how could I forget you?”

 

“Ha-ha! Yes! Of course!” Stanford cheered. “Stanley… Do you have any memory of what happened before you came here?”

“I remember… I remember a phone booth. But after that it’s just a bunch of junk. Why? What happened?” Stan murmured, but it was then he fully registered his situation. His situation being he was in a room with towering consoles and a strange scent. Like the smell of sunburnt leather seats in the middle of the Summer.

And his twin brother was concerned for his well-being. The twin brother he hadn’t seen in over five years.

“Why the hell are you here?” Stan growled, now beginning to go on the defense. “Where am I? This isn’t just some cruel joke, is it?”

 

“No! No! No joke!” Ford exclaimed, waving his hands sporadically. “You called me from an unknown number. A phone booth, actually! Just like you said-- and I came for you as soon as you fainted while in the middle of our conversation.”

Stanley scratched his head. “Yeah, I guess I remember something like that…”

Fiddleford scrunched his nose, his fists now balling up at his sides in frustration, “Stanford- a word.”

The two left Stan to wander about the basement as they talked beyond the closed door in the middle of the darkened hallway. “Stanford, I’m very happy for you right now, but I do have concerns…”

“About what?” Ford asked, not even the slightest bit off put up the question.

“Well, you see--” Fiddleford’s fingers began to press against one another as he looked distantly into the musty halls. It was as if he were try to avoid the question. “I just-- oh, forget it. I’m going to be out right with you, Stanford. Where is he supposed to stay?”

“That’s simple! He could-” Stanford paused as then realized perhaps it was bit more difficult than originally thought. After all, he had built the cabin assuming that only two young men were going to ever be living here. Thus the floor plan consisted of two bedrooms, a living area, a kitchen, the attic for storage, and of course, the three (illegally) built floors below ground.

“And even if we did have a spare bedroom, it’s not like we have a bed to spare.”  Fiddleford continued, looking to the dark haired man for an answer to their problems. “And it’s not like we can let him go out yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars by the house.”

“Oh-” Ford scratched his chin as he considered any possible solutions, his face now lighting up as he exclaimed. “The attic!”

 

“What about it?” The former asked, his head slightly cocked to the side.

“We can put Stan up in the attic and he can sleep on the old futon until we get a new bed.” Ford concluded as he turned to Fiddleford. “How does that sound?”

“Fine with me, as long as he isn’t getting into any trouble.”

Suddenly a crash could be heard from behind the closed basement door which immediately caught both scientists attention as they turned for a possible explanation.

“Oops!” Stan exclaimed in a muffled voice. “I think I knocked something over! That wasn’t important, right?!”

Fiddleford pressed his hand against his face in irritation-- this was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

 

"... So don’t even worry about that goat outside!” Stanford concluded after a very long period of rambling as the two now stood next to the attic door. “Any questions about the house?”

Ford grinned wider than Stan had ever seen him grin before-- it was honestly beginning to make him uncomfortable as he had no idea why his twin was suddenly so thrilled with his reappearance. Because last he checked, Ford turned a blind eye to their own father kicking him out of the house as hot tears streamed down his face.

So why? Why come and pick him up now? Why care now? At least, that’s what he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t seem to gather the courage to question his brother’s motives in fear that he would only cause anguish. So he instead shook his head, “Nah, I think you covered everything.”

“Great!” Ford exclaimed as he twisted the golden handle-- revealing a darkened room with only a single light fixture hanging from the ceiling, several boxes stacked and catty-cornered from one another. And in front of a wall of Christmas ornaments and boxed, musty momentos-- there stood a folded couch.

 

The glasses-adorn twin sighed, scratching the back of his neck with embarrassment, “I’m sorry, it isn’t much of anything yet and we don’t have another room open… But I’m sure with a little cleaning and sprucing up-- it’ll look great!”

Stan rolled his eyes, showing himself into the room and pulling down the futon into its bed form, then with a huff-- flopped back onto it. “Hey, don’t even worry about it right now! Not like I’ve been stayin’ in the Ritz!”

“Well, it’ll only be for tonight,” Ford insisted, “tomorrow, Fiddleford and I will be moving all our junk downstairs.”

“Those Christmas ornaments aren’t junk!” Fiddleford shouted from downstairs.

Ford shook his head, still smiling softly as he corrected himself, “Alright, so our junk _and_ the Christmas ornaments.”

He stepped back from the the attic doorway, gripping the thin string in his hand, “Goodnight, Stanley. There are quilts in the boxes behind you if you need one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fiddleford grunted as he struggled with the large boxes in his arms, the stairs having become more and more of a challenge with each passing hour he had been carrying boxes.

“Ugh- Stanford! A little help, please?” He asked, blowing a lock of hair out of his eyes as the box continued to thump down the stairs with each passing step.

Ford set his box aside the elevator doors and slid by to assist Fiddleford in his efforts with the large box labeled _Tupperware_ . The tamest, and surprisingly, the heaviest box they had lifted all day despite the fact most of the boxes they had carried down mostly consisted of various spare parts, old science experiments, VHS tapes that were once thought lost to the annals of times past, and variations of _Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons_ as well as a scrapbook with all Ford’s _Magic: The Gathering_ trading cards filed chronologically by release date.

Stanford caught the other end of the plastic container, then supporting it with his strength as well while Fiddleford attempted to do the same.

 

“Steady now…” Ford murmured to himself as he glanced back over his shoulder and once down the stairs, managed to press the elevator button with his elbow. “And we’re good.”

Both sighed in relief as they set the box down and began to wait for the elevator.

Fiddleford folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, “So how’s Stanley? Any changes since last night?”

Stanford shook his head, glancing up at the ceiling aimlessly. “It’s as if he were never-- gone to begin with. He doesn’t even seem to realize it himself.”

The doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit elevator shaft. Ford gripped his end of the plastic shipping container and proceeded to push it into the shaft as he held the door open with his foot so he may reach back out again and grab the box which he had set by the doors as well.

 

“Um- about that-” Fiddleford said, attempting to change the subject as smoothly as possible. “Why did you lie to him?”

“About what?” Stanford asked, raising an eyebrow at the question.  
  
“About the phone. Why did you lie about there being a call from him that night?” Fiddleford clarified; Ford then beginning to chuckle at the notion.

“What am I supposed to tell him? That he was a corpse I picked up from a California police station?”

“No! Of course not!” Fiddleford exclaimed. “I’m just sayin’ that I don’t think it’s a good idea to be implanting false memories in his head…”

He sighed, “So I can feel guilty all over again? No. I won’t let that happen. This is a new start.”

 

The elevator drew to a halt Fiddleford proceeded to drag the box towards the basement doors, his features softening with anxiety as he tried to explain himself, “No- I-- Stanford, you know that’s not what I-”

Stanford held the door open with his foot, setting the box alongside another stack of boxes. “I know what you meant, Fiddleford. But I also know that I can make it better.”

He wedged the box between two others facing the walls, “By doing what, Ford? By lying?”

“No! Of course not! It’s only healthy exaggerations! He won’t even notice… Besides, it doesn’t matter in the long run.” Ford explained, the two then returning to the elevator. “It’s only a white lie after all. What could possibly be wrong with that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's me again, and I'd like to start by apologizing for my tardiness due to the fact that I've been extremely busy lately so if you would like to voice your opinion on how terrible I am with managing my time or perhaps even your thoughts on the chapter-- then leave a comment below. Or if you don't feel like speaking and want to voice your support then instead, leave a kudos, that'd be cool of you.
> 
> Next week, there will be no chapter four due to the fact this story will be moving to a biweekly schedule to make room for another story which I will be posting chapter one for on Thursday, it's a Steven Universe fanfic called Like a Comet and if you like Homeworld gems and dark stories (much like this one) I recommend you check it out come Thursday!
> 
> Got a burning question? I have a tumblr. Just drop by at indecisive-author.tumblr.com and I'll be happy to listen. And of course, I'd like to thank my outside friend and OutOfThisUniverse for beta-reading and you, for showing your support. 
> 
> So hey-- thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this will be my first official multi-chapter story, so if you loved, liked, or want to stalk this story with white hot hatred filling in your heart then refer to the "Subscribe" button at the top of the page. Also, if you like this story enough or want to see a founding father spontaneously raise from the dead-- leave a kudos or perhaps even a comment.
> 
> Thank you to OutOfThisUniverse for beta-reading and assistance with editing, and if you're into Danny Phantom-- look into their account where they already have a one-shot which is also about the death of a main character except he isn't going to be revived. And also, you, for reading and supporting this story. 
> 
> So hey-- thanks.


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